The tablet screen dimmed and died, leaving Arianne staring at her own blurred reflection in the black glass. She blinked and dropped her eyes to the notebook. Dates lined the margins. Locations followed. No explanations, no notes—just a record that expected to be understood without offering any help. Her hand rested near the edge of the table, not still, just waiting.
Franz moved first. He reached for his phone without looking at it, already unlocking it in a motion that didn't require thought, his gaze pinned to the open page. She turned the notebook before he had to ask, flattening the curled edge with her thumb. The paper resisted, stiff from humidity or age, and she pressed harder until it gave with a soft sigh. He took the first photo—a soft click, controlled, barely audible—then moved to the next page without lifting his phone too far.
